


Smile

by ya_idjits



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bellarke, Character Death, F/M, First The 100 Fic, Fluff, Food, Hugging, Overuse Of Parentheses, bracket fic, heck, turkish food stall/thrift town au, whoooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ya_idjits/pseuds/ya_idjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s there, as always. Bellamy fantasises that she comes to see him every Sunday, but he’s pretty sure that she just likes Turkish food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile

**Author's Note:**

> No, I don't hate Abby Griffin at all. I think she's a strong woman and a strong character. But for the purpose of this, a) because it's from Clarke's point of view, her mother is a domestic dictator, and b) Wells Jaha doesn't exist.  
> Sorry, Wells fans.
> 
> The little *** indicates a change in POV and the one little ### indicates a timelapse.
> 
> Also, I know it gets a tiny bit crack-y at the end (we just formally met! let's hug, boo-yah!) but please ignore that because i need my fluffy angst ok

She’s there, as always. Bellamy fantasises that she comes to see him every Sunday, but he’s pretty sure that she just likes Turkish food. His daytime profession includes a lot of paperwork (which he’s good at) and also a lot of bossing people around (which he’s even better at), so it’s kind of a win-win, but it doesn’t pay as well as he’d like it to. So to support Octavia and get her through med school (“I know it’s expensive, Bell, but I just want to help people. Like you”), he picks up small once-a-week jobs. Babysitting. A five-hour shift at the Blockbuster on 22nd every Thursday night. Working at a Turkish food stall at the farmer’s markets in the local strip mall on Sunday morning. His mom taught him to sew and cook at the same time she taught him to read and write (“Life skills, Bellamy. You can never go wrong with a mean broth and a neat stitch”). The guy who took over the stall from his late Turkish wife is racist (“I’m Filipino-American.” “You look Turkish to me, kid.”), but hey! Bellamy still gets paid, right? Oh, and there is one huge positive that keeps him working the stall. It has wavy blonde hair and a busty frame and twinkling grey eyes, and it – no, she. She flashes him a blinding smile (10 out of 10) every time he serves her unchanging order: two _borek_ and a can of sprite.

 

Even though they’ve only ever exchanged small talk or polite nods, Bellamy feels like he knows her. God knows she’s a constant in his life. Every Sunday at eleven am, she walks out of the Thrift Town across the street from Aykut’s Turkish Cuisine (extra pide only 75 cents!), smiles at all of the market-goers, and strides over with a determined glint in her eye to wait in line for her food.

 

Today is different. After a year and two fifths of smiling (sixty-one Sundays spent serving _borek_ and sprite), something has changed. Today, she has a worried expression twisting her sweet face, and she denies the public their weekly dose of sunshine smirk. Bellamy wonders with a thumping heart what’s wrong. She’s not following her usual routine; instead of making eye contact with him and grinning, she stares off into space, shuffling along dejectedly behind the other customers. Bellamy’s almost too nervous to inquire but then as he hands her the _borek_ and sprite (he’s gotten used to having one cold hand and one hot hand by now) her fingers bump clumsily against his and he blurts “hey, are you okay?”

 

Snapping out of her melancholy reverie, she stares at him like a startled rabbit. “Who, me?” She twists her gorgeous torso to glance over her shoulder at the line behind her before turning back to him. He nods and she mirrors the action a little uncertainly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

 

Shrugging, Bellamy replies with a faux-casual, “Just wondered.”

 

She smiles then, but it’s not bright; not wide enough to show any of those straight white teeth, and it doesn’t reach her eyes (it's only a 2 out of 10). “Thanks.”

 

Bellamy finishes his shift in a hazy, mellow fog that doesn’t let him focus on anything apart from the way she’d smiled so wretchedly.

 

 

***

 

 

Clarke is miserable. After her father’s funeral on Tuesday, she hadn’t gone into work. She’d stayed at home and cried and shunned her mother’s offered affections, because _how could Abby ask him that?_ Her stupid, careless mother, who had called Jake Griffin (Much beloved husband and father. 1964 – 2014. R.I.P.) to come and pick her up from a hens night. It had been raining in sheets so thick that Jake could barely see the road, much less the tree he wrapped himself around.

 

Clarke doesn’t know if she can ever forgive her mother.

 

She only has small solaces: discharging Jasper from the hospital (she would miss his doped-up narration of every day life); shutting herself up in her room and watching The Fox and the Hound; the ever constant routine of her day shift at Vinnies and night shift as a paramedic (both of which she’d restarted on Friday. She had duties, after all); Freckle Boy from Aykut’s Turkish Cuisine. She’s usually in a good mood by the time lunch break comes on Sunday, and getting her delicious food handed over by him only improves it. This week is no different, apart from the fact that she feels abysmal. Some of his good spirit seems to rub off on her, though: how many strangers ask people if they’re okay? (He does.) God, how many even notice that something’s not right? (He does, of course.)

 

Her _borek_ tastes as good as ever.

 

 

###

 

 

Cheered – if only slightly – by her encounter with Freckle Boy and her rich, buttery lunch, Clarke feels more tolerance with her customers than she has in days. That’s why, when the bell above the swinging glass door (the one that has old _sale_ signs hidden next to the frame and faded by the sun) tinkles, she turns towards the doorway with a small, polite smile on her face. She immediately has to fight to keep it that small when she sees who it is: Freckle Boy.

 

He wanders slowly, feigning interest in the glassware section and carefully avoiding any mannequins. The shop is devoid of any other customers, so Clarke focuses her full attention on him. Even though he’s three aisles away from the register, the scents of Turkish spices and olive oil that cling to him waft along above the clothes racks to drip over the counter in invisible, inviting tendrils. His grey Henley looks soft, and the dark curls that frame his face look even softer.

 

Seeming to decide on something after an internal debate, he drops the ruse and saunters up to the counter. Clarke can feel her stomach twist.

 

 

***

 

 

Jesus, she’s beautiful. As Bellamy approaches the counter, the girl gives him the same wide-eyed stare she’d treated him to earlier when he asked if she was alright. He’d messed up an order that morning (a first, which meant that he was upset with himself, but also meant that he got to eat the spare meal). Her mournful eyes had haunted him, stuck in the forefront of his mind as he chopped and fried and served.

 

Now, as he trails along on the crappy linoleum floor, he can feel his breath coming quicker and any previous pep talks ( _look at her, she needs cheering up. Go get her, tiger_ ) fly right out the window. He doesn’t quite know why he’s so damn nervous; God knows his experiences with women can’t exactly be classified as meek or chaste. Certainly not nerve-inducing (well, not to him. Maybe to someone less experienced). And yet, there she is, standing behind the counter as if she’d had a ruler taped to her spine. Only when they make eye contact does she allow herself to relax slightly, rewarding his attention with a smile that’s much stronger than the one she’d had during her lunch break, although not quite at full power (6 out of 10). He smirks and places his palms on the edge of the counter to (hopefully) coax confidence out of the corner of his mind.

 

He takes a deep breath. “Talk to me.”

 

She blinks. “What?”

 

“You’re obviously not alright, and you look like you could use a makeshift therapist.”

 

Her smile disappears and she scoffs at him like he’s just told her he’d like to take her to bed (which he would). “Why do you care?”

 

“You’re the highlight of my week,” he announces, trying to remain suave but feeling his gut tie itself into knots. “Oh God, I’m sorry. That sounded really seedy.”

 

“No, it’s okay,” she says, a tiny trace of dubious disdain remaining as she studies him. “You’re kind of – you’re mine, too.” (Her eyes widen as she says it, like she can’t believe what just came out of her mouth. It’s cute).

 

“I just thought you really liked Turkish food,” he confesses.

 

“I do. No, I mean –“ she huffs out a laugh and glances at the ceiling. “I do, but I also like you.”

 

Bellamy’s chest feels like it’s going to spasm and explode and shower everything with a luminescent warmth. “Oh.” He smiles (10 out of 10). “I like you, too.”

 

They pause, studying each other in an open, unapologetic way that they haven’t been able to before. The girl is wearing a creamy cotton shirt and ripped jeans, and Bellamy doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

 

“Do you want to talk? About… about whatever made you upset?”

 

When she closes her eyes, she looks pained (and a little bit like she’s trying not to cry). “Uh, my dad died. On Monday morning.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“And,” she takes a deep, calming breath and lets it out through her parted lips, “it’s my mom’s fault.”

 

“Oh. Oh, my god.”

 

Her eyes fly open, boring into his. “Don’t – say you’re sorry. You didn’t know.”

 

Bellamy peers at her uncertainly before moving around behind the counter. “What do you need?”

 

She opens her arms and lets him fall into them. The hug is awkward to begin with, but quickly becomes more personal as the girl ( _Christ, Bellamy, you don’t even know her name!_ ) shudders with one silent sob and buries her face in his neck.

 

 

***

 

 

The scent of spices and smoke is almost overwhelming as Clarke fits her head between Freckle Boy’s chin and shoulder, but underneath, there’s something cleaner, something that smells so utterly _human_ that she squeezes her fingers around his waist and feels his arms tighten in response. He rubs soothing circles with his thumb into her scapula and mutters “Shhh. Shh, it’s okay,” over and over into her hair. (It’s not, of course, but they can pretend.)

 

When she pulls away and stares at a clothes rack despairingly, he clears his throat and swallows (he looks like he expects her to kick him out).

 

Instead, she dabs her finger under her eye, sniffs, sighs, and extends her hand. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

 

Freckle Boy chuckles, gives her a firm handshake (his fingers are warm and strong and calloused and Clarke wonders what they would feel like against her cheek), and says, “Bellamy.”

 

They both smile (hopeful and longing. 10 out of 10).

 

 


End file.
